Mechia Browne: My Life in Poetic Rhythm & Other Random Thoughts...

2012-01-30T11:51:00.000-08:00

—an armed fiend.

One crisp strike—

He’s inside! ,

playing surgery with my belly.

His poison-tipped taunter

pierce perpendicularly—

thrashing—snipping—biting—di/ssecting… — rendering me

s_p_r_a_w_l_e_d_

across an icy, sterile slab

trembling—

knotted entrails

dangling out—

Exposed—

no friendly darkness to blanket me—

Confidence & Self-Esteem

aborted, breath

strangled-to-death—

Life

dripping, puddled

on
the
floor
.
.
.
.

Two Amigos

2011-08-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

As I scurried down my path

flustered-
stum bling-
dis combobulated&out-of-joint-

two dogs —resting— on a bed of grass

still
together
present (in life)

. . . bathing in the day . . .
darning in each moment . . .

One said, with dark gentle eyes,

"slow down (dear one)

to strive is not necessary, but to

lie
in the grass
with a friend,

tis."

The Gardener

2011-07-22T15:51:00.000-07:00

He humbled himself.

Knelt his desire at the edge of his flower's bed— a penitent sinner.
He saw her (bed) overwhelmed with green
from days of neglect, and understood her hard earth would
soften, by offering a little water.

Bending over wooden frame, with bare-skinned hands, He
care-ful-ly plucked each little fox gnawing on his garden.
Between fore-finger & thumb tips, He kissed
each hole bespeckled atop her leaf, and
determined in his heart to exterminate
the devouring creatures.

He remembered to replenish the soil.

At the side, He unwound the hose attached to the house
and unstopped the faucet — waterconsumeddrought
jumpinginsideherdarkbelly_resurrecting
roots giving up the ghost.

Sweating from his evening work, He rested awhile...

Many nights He dined with the stars, savoring
Rose, Honeysuckle, Moonflower and Lily.

He ate and was satisfied.

On Loving A Woman

2011-06-23T11:05:00.000-07:00

Much rain

makes beautiful

Flowers.

2011-05-02T15:49:00.000-07:00

A gentle knock
on my window—
my gentleman caller.

He visits more often
than those who call
me friend.

He raps softly, lovingly—ta-tap tap
repeating—ta-tap tap, serenading,
lulling like the lover’s lute, tugging

relentlessly at the strands
of my partially-unraveled Self,
beckoning me to play, enticing

my senses with unreal bouquets, tempting
me to partake, with him, in Fear's games,
inside my peace-filled dwelling…

I let down my long hair.

The Language of Hatred / Kindness

2011-01-12T09:04:00.000-08:00

Hatred

Spoken in any language

Still translates

As

Hatred / Kindness

Spoken in any language

Still translates

As

Kindness.

2010-12-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

I
will play big and bold in the world;
I
will play on my terms.
I
will play loud in the world;
I
will play intelligently without apology.

My feet will be enormous, forever changing
the landscapes where they tread. My hands will mark the spots,
forever, where I've dug, and dreams unimaginable will adorn my fingers,
like diamonds, and crown my head. Love will guide me, arm-in-arm,
to that promised-land where my name is Sheba,
and all sing my praises...

For the Insecure Boss with a Confident "Subordinant"

2010-09-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

No insecure cloud
can stop the rays of the sun...
Should insecure clouds persists,
all would die,
including the cloud,
for a lack of sunlight.

Compassion

2010-07-08T11:09:00.000-07:00

"I Compassion,

dwell not in sympathetic looks,

befuddled about with much sentimentality,

but am the chopping off of one's hand

to offer to

one's brother or sister

who is without

limbs."

Love

2010-07-06T12:35:00.001-07:00

See the moon,
how it glows in the night:
its afro brimming,
outlined by the sun’s light,
and living in a halo?

Anonymous

2010-07-06T12:31:00.000-07:00

I want to cry
To burst
into uncontrollable tears
To drown
you with them
To run
and bury my head
To end
this life and start over again.

Apology

2010-07-05T18:06:00.001-07:00

Let’s admit, we were both taught to hate.
Not in so many words
but in so many actions,
insinuations and intonations-
little revelations-
of lies internalized
that made you askew
to me
as much as I am askew
to you.

Now I realize
it's not entirely true
so I apologize
to you.

True,
Like fruit,
every culture has its group of seeds
that fail to unfold, for the world to behold
the manifold riches and goodness lying within
the skin of their cultural mold.
Having a nature partly comprised
of two warring cultures, overlaid with a gender that is publicly demonized
who the world has now come to collectively despise,
all because of lies internalized,
I sharply analyze and harshly scrutinize,
at times criticize truth falsified
about you, so that I might know you for you
see you as you, and hope that I can count on you
to likewise arise and show me the same respect.

Now I realize
it's not entirely true
so I apologize
to you.

Our cultures are the same
though we bare different names,
sing songs with a different base,
eat foods with a different taste,
wear clothes of a different weaving
partake in religions of a different believing
having features of a different composition
yet share we the same position
concerning the basic nuggets of life-
our unalienable rights-
so that we might both work,love,and gain
a life not lived in vain.

Now I realize
it’s not entirely true
so I apologize to you.

Death will be the end of us both.
So while I’m alive
I’ll take this moment to simply apologize
for the harm done you
at the hand of ancestors we never knew,
whose shameful acts toward those like me and like you,
somehow permeated through
the psyche of men and women,who
relegate us to red, white, blue, yellow
and black…

Now I realize
it’s not entirely true
the cultural lies that were spread
about me and about you.
So, I apologize to you.

Dancing with You

2010-07-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

Dancing with You is like,
drinking from a fountain--
refreshing,
a cool splash-inside
on the back of a dry throat.

A desert resurrected.

Dancing with You is like,
new life—
refreshing,
a return of breath to empty, decaying flesh-
motion to stillness-
and a return of marrow to once hollow bones.

Decay reversed, and a beat returned to a still-born heart.

Dancing with You is like—
humm…and I am afraid, for I have
2
left
feet.

Reciprocity

2010-07-05T17:23:00.000-07:00

His heart beats as mine-
us intertwined-
two curved lines in sync in our own time-
fully aligned.
We are the only two, one-of-our-kind
for I am he and he is mine.

Never before did I find
such reciprocity divine.

His arms return my embrace-
his chest too.
In the strength of his hold I, fully, am encased,
cleft in the rock and cradled by his breathe into which I escape,
fully enthralled by this magical place
I leave, for the moment, life’s painful race,
and hang my tired soul, wet like linen whites, on the nails of his embrace.
His backbone sways to envelope my weight
drinking me in, digesting me fully; I am not his mistake.

Never before did I find
such reciprocity divine.

He returns my gaze with an emboldened stare,
his smile meets mine erupting there a delectable-little-flare.
Caressing his likeness within my cheeks
he brands me with a simple kiss; we are what the other seeks.
Ever absorbent of the sounds I articulate,
knowing at times what is to be said before words take shape
yet remaining patiently still, listening, till at last my air breaks
and out tumble my insides onto his lap. He waits--
knowing when to give and when to simply take.

Never before did I find
such reciprocity divine

A forest above me, is he
absorbing the beatings of the sun.
While his left hand firmly fans within the lower curve of my spine
the fingers of his right hand spider down (my arm) and inject themselves between mine; around him I wind and hold on for dear life.
His shoulder's limbs are two mountain ranges lovingly erected on either side of me.
Where do I lay my head to rest? On his chest…
where I nurse on the milk of his…reciprocity.

Never before did I find
such reciprocity divine-
him and me-
for I am he, and he is mine.

Penmanship

2009-10-10T06:28:00.000-07:00

There is something about a pen’s permanency
that makes me shrink away from it-
intimidated.
Too much pressure to be
right
perfect
clear, neat and always,
legible.

On white paper if I sign my own name, my own way
I am still told to
“PLEASE PRINT”

And should I dare make a mistake
I must either
crumble up my perfect white paper and start over
or
cross it out, forever being stamped with the scarlet proclamation,
“I MADE A MISTAKE,” with the error there remaining,
alive, breathing-pulsing-beneath the scribble, staining
my perfect white paper.

Never mind the lines are not long enough for all of my information,
or
the space provided is not large enough for me to make my full markings
or, truthfully,
my hand is trembling from feelings of great shame and regret
as I fill out these here papers…
while my body feeds, without my choice, this unborn substance left by my choice.

The one great consolation about pencils
is that a mistake is easily erased away…
like it never happened.

…I wonder if that’s what Jesus was trying to convey.

My Lover's Lips

2009-09-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

“I'm jealous of you.

To you he retreats with for his daily embrace
always neglecting mine,suckling you between his folds
smoothly, gently
time after time.
Day after day,
hour after hour
he sits with you as his comfort
and I wish to become you so that
I might touch him, taste him, and he might need me, desire me
just as he does you
so faithfully.

Your narrow white body slips gracefully between his lips
feeling his wetness and the pressure of his inhalation.
I watch you nestling with his fingers-
a conversation my body has never had the pleasure of having.
While he clings to you, ignoring your slow poison,
he rejects the pureness of my heart and the cleanliness of my love.
Ohh, how I envy you for stealing time from me and leaving me
out in the cold, and old
shall I be
without a love story to be told.
Even when you are not around
there you remain,
his every breath
stained.

My lover’s lips are truly divine.
Yet it is you, not I, that receive of the wine,
a liquid velvet never to be mine,
that ferments daily between his couch’s split
and drips
from the tips
of my lover’s full lips.

You constantly burn, but not as I
with nothing of love pulsating through your insides.
You drop as ash to floor
leaving him unsatisfied and wanting more.
I too burn, but with a passion and a delight
at the sight of him, hoping
for just one taste, one lick, one long kiss goodnight
or a sensual bite…

I sit and wait
for him to let go of your bait
but as time waves goodbye
pieces of me die,
and my heart returns to her bedchambers to sob and to cry
.…and what I find most lamentable
is that I
am jealous of
you
a cigarette.”

A Lonely Soul

2009-09-13T14:57:00.000-07:00

Loneliness is not the mere absence of a human companion
but more like the a-loneness one experiences when going for a run
at 4am in the morning-
the cool unconsciousness of the world to your very existence,
unseen
unfelt
unheard
un-believed,
and its stillness to the fact that someone breathes-
even in a crowd, amongst friends and family,
one feels these things.

Wind

2009-09-02T00:24:00.000-07:00

I am the wind
you can’t possess me.
Enclose me and I will smother you.
Try to hold me
and I will become the tree from which is said,
“ they hung.”
I am of the form that slips through your fingers
your clutches, your grasps
I am beyond your intelligence
my structure takes no part in your buildings
and should I stir
everything you’ve built will come down.

I am the wind
my company is hidden within the aerial- the ethereal -
I am the unseen tower all around
I am the clear-liquid-filling beneath the clouds
and above the ground.
I am the spirit that leaves no trace but that of
bent trees, jovial leaves, and a sun-kissed breeze,
and all inhale my presence.

I am the wind
not earthen bound
no strings attached
to my back
but you must stay
as mere clay
with the dust
from which you were made,
susceptible to Disease and Death, who cannot not be appeased.

I am The Wind
Battle me
I’ll always win
too quick for you
unseen by you
un-powered by you
yet having power over you.

How deal you with gravity? Shall you teach me how I?
Tell me, which of your laws restricts me? I can kill at will.

I am The Wind.
You will always, never be
immortal, eternal, all powerful
and unlike you, I will forever be, and have always been
alive.

Mere men are you and offspring of men,
but I?
I Am The Wind.

Faith

2009-08-14T18:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve got a lion in my chest.
It feels like fire.
Its claws have sunken deep into the flesh of my cage
and curled up under inside the bone.
Its mouth opens wide to let out a roar
but the teeth of its jaw got caught on the rib
beneath its left paw.

Its tail slithers languidly down my abdominal wall
and the lower pit of my stomach
has become his constant drum.
its hind feet rest nicely tucked up under its muscular bum
its claws, hawk like, perch right beneath my two breasts
where its body lay crushing through to the spine
where there is intertwined
pussing boils, red-stained tears,
and sweat
from the years
of running this race
called Faith.

I’ve got a lion in my chest.
It feels like fire
and it’s hard to breathe
and at times I feel like I’m lost at sea
although I heard Him distinctly
saying,
“come and follow me.”
My faith is tried and tested, and at times I fail the test
‘cuz I know what is pleasing
is walking without seeing
and coming to the end of my effort’s best.
But I’ve got a lion in my chest
that feels quite stuck
and now
has started to buck.
Jerking viciously to free its claws
and shaking violently to release his jaw.
No longer satisfied within this space
it wants to break free
to occupy its place
with those that roam ‘round.
And the morbid sound
of his constant pound
and writhing around and around
shimmy up and down,
my fist hard and round
from electric anxieties that I can’t ground
and hungers that are hard to bound.
My pile of dreams is a growing mound
and heavenly promises nowhere to be found
with tormenting doubts pecking at my crown.

I’ve got a lion in my chest.
It feels like fire
and like I’m walking on wire
ready to explode
and finish this episode
of my life in hidden code
and take up a new abode
elsewhere
with a different air
without one care
or traps and snares
so I can finally
live in the destiny
He created in me,
before the earth took shape and form,
uninhibitedly.

I’ve got a lion in my chest-
Heavenly Father
help,
please.

Mr. X

2009-08-13T10:17:00.000-07:00

I call him Mr. X
Not that he was my ex
but a could-have-been
that never was.

A long, hard cold wish upon an unrealistic star
a door barred (not left ajar)
a card not in my deck to hold
a unique love story that didn’t unfold.

A dream that I could not create
a fantasy I could not manipulate
a white slate from which I never ate
a choice never offered me to make
a possible blessing clothed as a probable mistake
a painstaking ache
the butter-white icing on my brown-sugared cake
a lifelong playmate

A prayer unanswered or unheard
a thrill in my voice never unfurled
a loving sigh never exhaled
a desire unexpressed and a giddiness suppressed
a gleam in my eye that never sparkled
a pair of arms that never cuddled
a skip of my heart that never played
endless smiles that were never staged
kisses unchoreographed and dances unsung
a love letter never begun
and on my back there remains
a slight sadness stain--
‘My Mr. X’

Confusion

2009-08-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

“She kissed me”, he said

But that wasn’t true.

“What the fuck?!” she said,
“I don’t know,” I said
“well he’s a free spirit,” she said, “everybody feels safe with him.”

Safe is not the word that comes to mind but
something more loathsome that bends the mind,
something more seething that clouds the mind, and
something more deceiving that blocks the mind.

What I heard her to say was,
“everyone feels confused with him,”
at least I did.

No, he kissed me.

He taunted me/He excited me
He offended me/He exalted me
He withheld from me / He fed me
He ignored me/He said he dreamed of me
He rejected me/He wanted me
He played busy when around me/He secretly gave flowers to me
He was blind to me/He opened his eyes me
He mocked me/He admired me
He silenced me/He wrote a song for me to sing
He towered over me/He felt intimidated by me
He was restless about me/He felt a calmness when he looked at me
He pushed me/He pulled me
He ran from me/He gravitated towards me
He punched me/He embraced me.
He stripped identity from me/He said he was a Black woman like me
He hid from me/He came in search of me
He tried to extinguish me/He fantasized a life with me
He shattered his mirror of me/He created a woman that was me
He tried to eclipse me/He saw his reflection in me
He personified light to me/He displayed his darkness to me.

“I’m gay,” he said to me.
“He now likes women,” she said to me.
Huh?

To Be

2009-08-04T08:53:00.000-07:00

To be
this
or
that
is
the
human plight.

To
choose, rather,
to be
This
and
That
and the
Other
is
the
human fight.

A Ballad of a Mother's Regret

2009-08-04T05:38:00.000-07:00

“I never wanted three children,” my mother said to me
“Two was my intention for our family,
but God intended three.”
Oh, pity the burden on me.

“I never wanted three children,” my mother said to me
“two was my intention for our family,
but God intended three.”
Please heavenly father,
Let this cup pass from me.

“I never wanted three children,” my mother said to me
“two was my intention for our family,
but God intended three. If I could do it over,
not one, not two, nor three,
neither a family
would I chose for me.”

“I never wanted three children,” my mother said to me
“two was my intention for our family,
but God intended three.”
One is my sister,
my brother makes two,
and I, sadly, am number three.

“I never wanted three children,” my mother told me...
Neither chose you I, dear mother--

The Kiss

2009-08-04T05:35:00.000-07:00

Ever been kissed by the sun?
The heated rays, like long fila, gracefully stroke my lips like fingers,
permeating every pore of my submissive face,
igniting my entire celled body.
A lover not afraid to give me warmth is the sun to me.
Never tiring, he keeps pouring until his radiance is too wonderful for me
to contain, that I am forced to look away.
Oh that I could hold him, be him, embody him.
Let your light shine in me!
Illuminate me.

Friendship for Sale

2009-08-04T05:27:00.000-07:00

Friendship for sale! Friendship for sale!
Friendship for sale! Friendship for sale!

My collection of friends, or
would be friends, or
never could be friends and
never were my friends,
are available for sale.

My collection of friends:
deceiving friends, lying friends, back-biting friends, spying friends, always mocking friends, and never letting me live friends. Always parenting friends, jealous competitive friends, always gotta win friends, take the fun out of fun friends, judgmental friends, controlling, jucking, and jiving friends. Talking behind your back friends, never calling me back friends, laughing at your expense friends, always talking but never listening friends, always right never wrong friends, over bearing and pushy friends, overstepping their bounds friends, unapologetic friends, complaining friends, using me for their own good friends, agenda-seeking friends,
are available for sale.

My collection of no good friends:
loud and obnoxious friends, disrespectful friends, foul-mouth and ungrateful friends.
Always-have-to-be-the-center-of-attention friends, codependent friends, provoking friends, unloving friends, low self-esteem friends, low financial means friends, going nowhere friends, extreme friends, unbelieving friends, two-timing friends, childish friends, arrogant friends, greedy friends, spoiled friends, nobody’s friend friends,
are all available for sale.

I am moving out of the neighborhood and
I am taking nothing with me.

Code Red

2009-08-04T05:21:00.000-07:00

CODE RED
Red is my favorite color; my mother called me a hussy the first time I wore it.

Many think I do so as a symbol of my power

Others say I do so as an emblem of my sensuality

More contemplate I do so as a statement of my passion, thinking I am on fire

But I do so as my cry for help, my cry for you to love me.

CODE RED! Chandra-- is--experiencing-- heart failure.

C O D E RED!

C O D E RED!

C O D E R E----------!

The Heavenly Sky

2009-08-04T05:13:00.000-07:00

Year: 2000
Place: Venice, Italy

A man spit at us today,
not sure why.
We were not in his way, but he
went out of his to show his disgust,
we make not one cry,
at the sight of a man, woman, and child,
but continued our lunch under the heavenly sky.
sitting and eating under the heavenly sky.

A man spit at us today,
not sure why.
He was sort-of tall and lanky in sight,
hidden behind dark glasses,
an Italian white.
He walked away proud, sure of his result,
that we now felt much shorter than short,
much less than we are, less than human than we are,
but we found a sweet solace in the heavenly sky.

At home in America the same is true,
subtle hatred towards those with the African hue.
The same would not be true,
were I a German or a Jew,
should I hail from India or Asia,
the same would not be true.
Still, rejected are those
made Black by the African hue,
even by our own,
yet share we the same view of the heavenly sky.

A man spit at us today,
now I know why,
our skin happened to be darker under that big heavenly sky.

Nameless

2009-08-04T05:08:00.000-07:00

I am your statue of violation; made beautifully for your distaste.
Painted distortions. Picasso?
No, no work of art am I, but a kneaded clod of your configuration.
Groped colors. Oestrus shapes. Raped tones.
My body made from the most indestructible material for your destruction;
I am nothing more than nothing.
I am abandoned. I am jerked. I am pulsed.
Your hands snatch and rake, wring and wrench.
Your eyes--hangers--rip daily into my flesh gorges, sinews vomited with hatred.
My essence depleted. My soul whitewashed. My heart crumpled.
Betrayal's craters and the debris of rejection often brand me.
The tastes of love know not I, and loneliness' poison is my blood.

I am your statue of violation; perfectly designed for your distaste.
My head: non-existent, for you are my head
My neck: your Babylonian tower to topple like the mighty Samson
My shoulders: your platform for my forced submission
My arms: your reins to keep me on the straight and narrow
My breast: your forsaken lots and lost change
My ribs: yours, encaging my life force
My back: your pharaoh's chariot
My hips: your Roman columns desecrated
My vagina: your walled outlet
My legs: your indentured walking sticks
My feet: your waiter's trays on which to keep your tapped rhythms.

I am your duty. Your machine. Your playground. Your experiment.

I am your statue of violation;
made in your image…
I am Woman.